It feels like some mad game of tug-of-war. One side pulls hard, seemingly winning. Then the other, yanks and tugs until the whole kit and kaboodle of you are being dragged against your will, to the other side of that blasted line. You feel the rope sliding between your hands despite your best efforts to hold on tight. It just keeps pulling. Until. You. Let. Go.
There has been this whole mob of fellow-strainers. Someone strong to act as anchor. Another who shouted words of encouragement, slogans of victory. There was the tall guy bent double with the heaving. Another at the front shouting orders as she models how to win. All have struggled. Each has given their uttermost.
You wander aimlessly, stunned you could not win, not even with the whole lot of you wrenching hard.
That is what these days and weeks and months have been. A pulling and wrenching, first to one side and then another. You are certain the added strength of new drugs will ensure a victory. You just know that because you have all given your best, poured your heart and soul into this struggle against those cells, wayward, that this fruit of your womb will stay. Your team will win and She. Will. Live.
We are startled when she is being tugged so steadily away. When the other side yanks and heaves until we are the ones losing. The rope is burning our hands as it is torn from our grip and there is no relief.
Until. We. Let. Go.
It is only as we relinquish our rights to keep our daughter, that we realize this is not about one side losing and the other victorious. No. It is all about the struggle, the camaraderie, the banding together to love another, well.
This is not tug-of-war.
This is tug-of-love, where our hearts are only wrenched and pulled because we cherish another. And because He knows how to love us, well.